


Colds and Bad Coffee

by sapphire2309



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire2309/pseuds/sapphire2309
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vicious cold on a winter working day, seemingly bad coffee, a headache and a temptingly close weekend completely exhaust Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colds and Bad Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the prompt "Minor Illness" on my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[hc_bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/)   
> This was written for [Peter Whumpday](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/145599.html) over at [](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/)**whitecollarhc**.  
>  Also, I wrote humour. As mild as it may be. :O

Peter loves having vicious colds on winter weekends. It’s ridiculous and so unbelievably weird that anyone but El would have balked at it.

Honestly, having a cold on the weekend, especially when Elizabeth Burke is your wife, is pretty ideal. Hot, homemade chicken soup, hot chocolate (a rare treat), a recording of a Yankees game against the Mets, which they won (of course) with El resting her head on his shoulder and running Burke Premier Events via her iPad.

A blocked nose is a pretty small price to pay for a weekend of pampering.

-:-

  
Vicious colds on winter working days are an entirely different ball game. 

-:-

  
He wakes up on Friday morning with a blocked nose that only promises to get worse.

He shoots an inward _‘Couldn’t this have waited a day?’_ at his immune system, and rolls out of bed, grimacing at the slight pounding in his head.

He comes down the stairs half an hour later, disheveled but arguably half-decent.

El smiles understandingly at him, ruffles his hair a little, and sends him out of the house with a pat on his back and a travel mug of coffee that will have frozen to sub zero temperatures by the time he puts it to his lips.

-:-

  
He’s pretty positive the coffee machine is pouring out sludge just to mock him.

He brings the cup to his nose. Even through the nasty wall of mucus and dust and who knows what else, he can smell a faint metallic edge to it.

He’s glad his taste buds are off.

He takes a sip and gags.

He swallows the sludge anyways.

-:-

  
This is odd.

All the numbers and letters in this file that are supposed to connect in ways that make sense are jumbled up, twisted in weird and incomprehensible ways.

Peter blinks twice.

There we go! The numbers and letters are behaving again.

If only his brain would.

Neal chooses that particular moment to plop himself down in a visitor’s chair, making Peter jerk his head upwards in that sudden way that leaves your head feeling a little woozy (not a good thing, at the moment) and your neck with a sharp pain that demands that his hand press it gently before doing anything else.

“You know, if you’re falling asleep over art crime, you should really go home.”

Peter glares. Neal smiles at him innocently.

Peter doesn’t feel secure leaving his office unmanned around Neal Caffrey.

“No, thanks,” he says as politely as he can. He blinks again, slowly this time, to give his brain a rest. “Why am I being polite to you?” he wonders out loud. He takes a sip of his coffee. Sludgy and cold blend oddly, he thinks as he grimaces at the taste.

Neal sighs. If Peter had been just a little better, he might actually have dropped a few smart lines. He doesn’t have the heart to do it right now.

“Get some rest,” he says, gives him a pat on the back that screams ‘Cowboy up’ (he couldn’t resist) and leaves the office as quietly as he can.

-:-

  
His head is five inches from the nearest wall – prime distance if you intend to bang your head against it – when he realizes that it’s five eight. More importantly, it’s past five.

He can go home now.

“See you next week,” he says to the office in general, grabbing his overcoat and stuffing everything into one oversized pocket.

“Get yourself home, Caffrey,” he says before dashing out of the office and into a conveniently open elevator with the first sign of reserve energy anyone’s seen all day.

Everyone’s a little relieved to see him go, out of a desire to see him in good health, of course. No one’s relieved that the endless tirades about relatively good coffee are gone – what was that back there?


End file.
